


certain things are crossed out

by phantomvape



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Season 3, Season 3 Finale, i am now a wanted criminal for writing this, not sharing a bed :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomvape/pseuds/phantomvape
Summary: Martin thought it was true, everything was going to be fine. Because Tim pulled the blankets over both of them. Because Tim pressed a kiss to his forehead.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	certain things are crossed out

**Author's Note:**

> title from Richard Siken's poem 'Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out'.

Martin isn’t sure when the change started. 

.

They fought in the tunnels, while hiding from the… _thing_ that used to be Sasha. Martin snapped and cried as they wandered that twisting awful other place. Tim shut down, jaw clenched tight, and used that voice that meant Martin was being _stupid_. 

But after they found the body, after the police cleaned up the crime scene of Jurgen Leitner, Tim pulled Martin into a fierce hug. He dug his fingers into Martin’s back, breathing hard against Martin’s neck. They didn’t let go for a long time, there outside the Institute. When they finally did, it was only until Tim could herd them back to his flat. 

For a while, they lived out of each other's pockets. Martin knew it was the shock of loss, causing this sudden desperation for familiar hands, for someone else who _knew_ and _understood_. Tim didn’t even want to let Martin out of his sight long enough for them to make their statements to the police. Their days were filled with casual touches, long looks. _I’m here_ , and _I’m here_ , and _I’m still here_.

It was slow after that, gradual. Tim stayed in bed more and more, telling Martin he really didn’t give a _shit_ what Elias thought about it. On the nights Martin cooked dinner, it was in silence. There were no arms around his waist, no jokes murmured against the back of his neck. When they ate, Tim curled against the far side of the couch where he could watch the front door. 

But Martin told himself that everything was going to be fine. Because when he reached his foot out, Tim still hooked their ankles together. Everything was going to be fine because Tim still gave him those tired little smiles. He still took Martin to bed, kissing him like he was trying to prove something, or memorize the shape of Martin’s teeth. 

.

Sometimes, Martin woke in the night. He’d scare himself out of some foggy, half-remembered nightmare to find Tim was already awake. He’d be sitting up, a hand already carding through the short hair at the back of Martin’s neck. His eyes would be searching Martin’s face with a kind of frantic intensity Martin could never decipher. 

“You okay?” Martin asked one of these nights, voice thick and soft with sleep. 

Tim continued to stare, fingers feeling gently over the shell of Martin’s ear, “Just making sure,” he muttered, brushing his thumb down the soft line of Martin’s jaw. He looked so focused, Martin couldn’t tell if he was even aware he’d spoken. 

“Making sure of what?” 

Martin didn’t dare to move under Tim’s careful gaze. He let Tim’s fingers roam his jaw, his cheek, rub at the bags under one of his eyes. He assumed Tim meant _okay_ , or _alive_. 

“Making sure you’re still you,” Tim answered, barely louder than a breath. He pushed his thumb just barely into Martin’s cheek, like he was checking that the bone was there underneath. 

At that, at the sharp awful agony that sparked in Martin’s chest, Martin reached up to catch Tim’s hand. He squeezed it and when Tim didn’t squeeze back, he brushed his lips against Tim’s knuckles, then the pad of his thumb. 

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Martin promised, lips moving against the warm pressure of Tim’s thumb. 

Tim only sighed, but he laid back down. He pulled Martin close. Martin thought it was true, everything _was_ going to be fine. Because Tim pulled the blankets over both of them. Because Tim pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

.

But the more time passed, the more Tim looked at Martin like that. He’d watch him while they got ready in the mornings, when they passed each other in the Institute halls. Like he was waiting for Martin to slip up, somehow. 

Martin didn’t know what to think about that, it made him feel uneasy. It made his skin crawl. He didn’t know what it meant, for Tim to watch him like a hawk, for Tim to flinch when Martin tried to touch him. Tim pulled away from him gradually, shuttering away parts of himself until Martin hardly recognized him. 

.

“Are you actually reading statements?” Martin asks as he rounds Tim’s desk. For a moment, Tim doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s pouring over one of the statements, a few pages long. His desk is piled with other papers; statements and pages scrawled with Tim’s messy handwriting. 

“Tim?” 

Tim doesn't respond. He sets the statement aside, pulling an open notebook closer to scribble something down. It’s a kind of determination Martin’s never seen in Tim, especially at work. 

He tries to brush a hand over Tim’s shoulder, but Tim jumps so hard Martin stumbles back a step. “Jesus! Tim, are you alright?” 

Tim whirls on him, eyes wide, “Oh, _Martin_!” His face lights up with that false bravado, the kind he uses when someone catches him in a lie. “What brings you here?” 

Martin tries to peer over Tim’s shoulder, tries figure out what exactly Tim is doing. But Tim steps to the side, placing himself like a barrier between Martin and the desk. “Uh, I was just wondering if I was sleeping at yours tonight. What are you up to, exactly?” 

“Nothing, just a bit of research.” Tim turns, scooping the papers into messy piles. When he more or less manages to cram them under the cover of the notebook, he gives Martin another glance. For a moment, the bravado is gone. Martin expected to be scrutinized again but Tim just looks… scared. Scared of _Martin_. 

“Tim, are you-” 

“Listen, Martin,” Tim reaches a hand up, cutting him off, “I uh, I don’t think you should come around for a bit. I think I need some space.” He drags a hand through his hair, pushing the curls off his forehead. 

It feels like the floor is crumbling under Martin’s feet. He wonders idly if the tunnels are caving in, if whatever is down there is finally swallowing him up. “I- uhm, what?” 

Tim continues to stammer, waving his hand like he’s giving some grand presentation on why exactly Tim Stoker no longer cares for the company of one, Martin Blackwood. “I just, I think we’re getting too serious! You’re getting too attached. I think that I let you think this was more than it really is, you know?” 

“Tim, I don’t think that’s what this is about,” Martin says. He is careful to keep his voice even and quiet, but he can feel his face screwing up. He can feel a cold pit forming in his stomach, freezing him from the inside out. “If you want me to stop coming over, then say so. But don’t make things up just to hurt my feelings. That’s not fair.” 

Tim drops his hand, then his shoulders. He slouches back against the desk and he looks so tired. Even through the shock and the hurt, Martin wants to hug him. He wants to press a kiss to that exhausted furrow in Tim’s brow. “I want you to stop coming over,” Tim says, his voice smaller than Martin has ever heard it before. 

Martin twists his fingers into the hem of his sweater, “Well, alright then. That’s fine.” 

Tim flinches, goes to speak but Martin beats him to it, “Really, Tim. Everything is fine. And if it isn’t then, it will be. I won’t come around anymore. Not unless you want me to.” 

He wants to ask why. He wants to shake Tim, demand he admit what's really going on. He wants Tim to tell Martin how he feels, what he’s so afraid of. 

But that’s not fair to Tim. If he wants Martin to leave, then Martin will leave. 

Martin can even convince himself that time apart will help things. Everything just needs to settle down. Then it will all go back to normal. It will all go back to a time when Tim looked at Martin like he hung the stars, to a time when they never had to leave the soft little world they had created in Tim’s flat. 

Everything’s going to be fine, because Tim never asked for Martin to return the key to his apartment. Because it still shines bright and silver on Martin’s keyring. 

.

Things get… intense after that. 

Martin doesn’t hear from Tim for a long, long time.

.

Martin expected the fear to be more… unbearable, but it remains a dull and steady pulse in the back of his mind. He’s used to being scared. It practically his fucking job, at this point. He already had a panic-fueled cry in the men’s restroom, hands clutching the edges of the sink as that sickening feeling swelled and crested and fell back into something he could swallow again. 

Jon, Daisy, Basira, and Tim are going to the House of Wax. They’re going to stop the Unknowing. 

They might not come back. Martin has been trying very hard not to think about that. 

They _will_ come back, all of them will. Because there’s a plan, and as stupid as it is, Martin thinks he trusts Basira and Daisy to keep things in control. He knows Jon will try something self-sacrificing, the dramatic martyr that he is. And Tim…

Martin can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Tim in the past two months. He hasn’t even been staying at his flat. Martin still checks in on it every few days, making sure to replace the food in the fridge before it spoils. Just in case, you know. Just to be sure Tim has something to eat if he comes back. He doesn’t even know where Tim is now. Probably helping Jon inventory their fucking _explosives_. 

Martin’s not sure how his life has spiraled this far out of control, to the point where he’s watching his coworkers bustles around the Archives in tense silence as they ready their supernatural suicide mission. 

In an attempt to escape that particular panic attack, Martin retreats to the break room. He’s hoping for a moment of quiet, without any of Basira’s grave looks or Jon’s nervous triple-checking. He’s hoping for a cup of tea, a moment to breathe under the humming fluorescent lights. 

The break room feels like a memorial to normalcy. There’s a cheap coffee maker on the counter, and a microwave that never heats anything all the way through. In the cabinets there’s boxes of tea, most with Martin’s name written along the side. Martin’s sure there’s still a bag of Sasha’s fancy toffee candies hidden on top of the fridge. He knows some of her tupperware is still stacked by the sink, sharpie scrawled with ‘CONTAINS POISON, DO NOT TOUCH!! - SJ’. 

Martin isn’t expecting to hear the microwave humming, or to see Tim standing in front of it. 

It feels like a punch in the chest. Martin feels like he needs to sit down. Tim is _there_ , warming up a mug of water like it's just any other day. Back before everything went to hell, Tim liked to pull Martin or Sasha into a dance while they waited on the microwave. One memorable morning, he even dragged Jon into a reluctant spin and dip. 

“ _Hi_ ,” Martin breathes, at a loss for what to do. He’s stuck with his hand on the doorframe, watching Tim just… exist. 

He’s thinner, his shirt wrinkled and hanging off him where it used to fit well. His hair is pulled back with a kind of carelessness Martin has never seen on him. It makes Martin’s chest ache. Everything about him is so different. Martin misses Tim, even as he watches him turn and raise one dark eyebrow. 

“Long time no see,” Tim offers, before turning back to the microwave. 

Martin forces himself to let go of the doorframe, to go about the motions of readying his own tea. He picks a tea bag from the cabinet, and a mug from the stack by the sink. He fills it with water, ignoring the minute trembling of his fingers. He can hear Tim, can see him out of the corner of his eye. With his mug full of cold water, Martin lets himself take one more deep breath. Then he turns around. 

Tim is already looking at him. He always, always is. But for the first time in months, it's not out of fear or suspicion. He isn’t looking at Martin like he thinks Martin is a spy, or a monster. He’s looking at Martin like it's something he enjoys doing. Maybe it was once. 

It’s been a long time since Martin has felt eyes on him _like this_. Martin lets himself flush. He even feels a little embarrassed about his ill fitting cardigan and his jeans with the knees darned with pink thread. It’s ridiculous and juvenile, that he still cares what Tim thinks of him. Especially _now_ , when they’re about to- when he’s going to-

Martin takes a deliberate step forward, then another, until he’s standing next to Tim. He sets his mug on the counter, rubs his thumb over the chip in the handle.When he turns his head, Tim is still looking at him, eyes dancing from his hair to the column of his throat, from the curve of his shoulders down to his hands. 

“Did you ever finish that blanket you were knitting? The green one?” Tim asks, and it's the last thing Martin expects to hear. 

Martin opens his mouth, searching for words. He’s not even sure where it is now. There’s a good chance it's still in Tim’s flat, half finished and shoved under his couch. “Er, almost. I, uh, got distracted, I guess.” 

Tim makes an agreeable noise, then sighs. He’s still looking at Martin’s hands, and the shredded skin around his nails.

The microwave hums. One of the lights flicker. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“What? Tim, you have nothing to be-” Martin snaps his mouth shut when he sees Tim’s face. There’s the barest flicker of a smile. A faint memory of the one he’d make when he was about to try and sweet talk Rosie. 

“ _I’m sorry_ , but I can’t think of a single pick up line to use right now.” 

For some reason, that causes the fear to rise and crash hard in Martin’s chest. In this moment, he wants to beg Tim not to go, to stay here with him. He wants Tim to take him home, wants to sit with their legs tangled together as Martin finishes that stupid blanket. 

He can feel the heat in his face, the lump in his throat. He swallows hard and laughs, a wet and awful sound, “Good thing you’ve never needed one for me.” 

Martin tries to remember the last time they kissed. He wonders what it would feel like to comb his fingers through Tim’s tangled hair. 

Tim turns, leaning one hip against the counter. “Does that mean I can take you out to dinner sometime?” 

And it’s so easy. It's so easy to act like they were the same Tim and Martin they were a year ago. When Tim would prop an elbow on Martin’s desk and invite him out for a drink. When he’d use that smooth, smug smile that made Martin fumble whatever he was holding. 

It’s easy for Martin to smile now, to let the tension drop from his shoulders. “I’d like that. I’d really like that.” 

There’s so much he could say. _I miss you_ , and _I’m sorry_. _I wish you had just talked to me_ , _I miss being looked at by you_. _Sometimes it feels like you’re the only person here who really sees me_. 

_Please come back_ , _please come back_ , _please come back_.

Tim slides one hand across the counter, catching Martin’s pinkie with his own. The touch feels like an electric shock, and a shiver courses through Martin as Tim pulls his hand closer so he can tangle their fingers together. 

“You’re shaking,” Tim murmurs. He’s squeezing Martin’s hand, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “Everything is going to be fine, Martin.” 

It feels like a lie, but he can tell Tim wants it to be true. 

God, Martin wants to kiss him. Wants to press their foreheads together and kiss Tim breathless. He wants to kiss Tim like that will be what fixes everything. 

Instead, the microwave beeps and they both jump. 

“Your water is done,” Martin’s voice cracks as he says it. 

Tim gives Martin’s hand one more squeeze and pulls away. He looks like he doesn’t want to. He looks like he wants every single thing Martin does in this moment. 

“You can have it. I’m sure Jon is wondering where I got off to.” The smile is gone, and Tim is stepping back. He’s turning away from Martin. 

He’s walking away. 

Martin tries to find the words. _Don’t go yet_ , _don’t leave_ , _come back here and kiss me_. 

_Come back_ , _come back_ , _come back_.

“Gotta keep the boss happy?” He calls, and it’s such a weak joke. It’s such an evil, weak joke and it just sounds pathetic to his own ears. 

Tim laughs though, he always does. Always willing to humor Martin. “Oh, of course. You know me, Mr. Employee Of The Month right here.” 

He doesn’t stop leaving. He’s still walking away and every step is deafening, agonizing. 

Tim pauses at the door though, turning to look over his shoulder. “Dinner,” he promises, “the second I’m back.” 

And the way he says it, the way he looks at Martin, it means a million things. But Martin can’t parse them all. He can only nod and say, “ _Yes_ , dinner. Of course, Tim.” 

Each word feels heavy in his mouth, and he wonders if Tim can tell. If Tim can hear every single thing Martin is too much of a coward to say, 

_Don’t leave_ , and _be safe_. 

_Come back_ , _come back_ , _come back_. 

And the single, truest, most terrifying one: 

_I love you_.

.

At the end of it all, when the dust finally settles, everything is very much not fine. Martin’s not sure if it ever will be again. 

He knows it’s dramatic. It’s pathetic, really. He knows Basira went through worse, she was fucking _there_ , and Jon is in a fucking _coma_. 

But Tim is dead. 

Tim is dead and Martin is not. 

And the world spins miserably on.

.

The night Basira, _only_ Basira, comes back, Martin sleeps in Tim’s flat. He unlocks the door with the key, his key, the key Tim gave him. He kicks off his shoes and peels off his jacket and falls asleep curled in the center of Tim’s bed, still fully dressed. 

The bed smells like Tim, overwhelmingly so, and Martin jolts awake with the terror that he could lose this too. So the next day, he moves to the couch. 

He eats the Lucky Charms he’d bought the week before, standing over the sink in the dark kitchen, and throws out the last of the milk in the fridge. He doesn’t go back to the Institute. He sits down on the couch and watches patches of sun move across the wall. 

He feels impossibly like he is drowning in slow motion. Like with every breath he is sinking farther and farther into some great, awful abyss. He tries not to breathe too much. He spends most of his time holding his breath. 

On the third day, he changes his clothes. He washes his face with cold water and leaves Tim’s flat. 

The third day is when he finds the anger. It is sudden and bright and so powerful he nearly falls over. It is the first time he’s set foot in the Magnus Institute since Basira said it, those awful apocalyptic words, and the anger hits Martin like a train. 

Tim is dead, and Martin is not. 

.

Martin had been working on a plan to get Elias locked up. He’d pieced it together in between preparations to stop the Unknowing. It was his secret pet project, his thing to keep him distracted from the possibility of the end of the fucking world. 

It’s easy to sit back down at his desk and throw himself bodily into the work. Martin is good at work, as much as Jon might say otherwise. He knows how to be tireless and relentless and efficient. 

He allows himself half an hour to imagine every brutal, awful thing he could do to Elias. He lets himself play out every horrific revenge fantasy to its beautiful, gory end. And then he stows them all away. As much as he would like to do what Melanie does with her anger, to rage and scream and charge at Elias with a dagger at the ready, Martin has seen where that’s gotten her. He needs this to work. 

So with each hot red pulse of anger, he gets a little closer and a little more determined to put Elias away for as long as possible. 

.

Four days after Tim’s death, Elias is being led out of the Magnus Institute in handcuffs. 

It doesn’t make Martin happy. It doesn’t settle the sick, hot, roiling feeling in his stomach. He stands in the doorway of Elias’s office and imagines running after him. He imagines tackling Elias to the ground. He imagines punching him in his stupid, smug face. He imagines hitting him until Basira has to drag him away, until Elias is begging him to stop. 

Martin doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he grips the door frame so hard his knuckles turn white. 

In the end, he is still Martin Blackwood. He is still Martin the pacifist, Martin the doormat, Martin the _coward_. In the end, this doesn’t change anything. Daisy is still gone. Jon is still in a coma. 

Tim is still dead.

And Martin still didn’t do anything to help them. Martin didn’t do a single thing to save them. They are all hurt and gone, and Martin- 

Martin is still _here_. Martin is still _alive_ , and still a _coward_ , and still taking the easy way out every single time. 

Martin is still doing nothing useful. 

.

And then Peter Lukas appears, and he offers Martin a _deal_.

**Author's Note:**

> i played VERY fast and loose with the timeline, sorry. there is a bounty on my head for this. my days have been numbered. 
> 
> if you would like something a little less emotionally traumatizing, i also have a series of fics about Tim vaping :)


End file.
